


Fearless

by Galena



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Academic Angst, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:40:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galena/pseuds/Galena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rung finds himself receiving advice from Whirl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fearless

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Бесстрашие](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6558454) by [veridical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/veridical/pseuds/veridical)



> Another one for happygoldfish on Tumblr :)

Rung raised his head and blearily rebooted his optics. He'd been at this for almost six hours; he was hungry, cold, and frustrated. And he was no closer to a workable treatment plan than he had been when he started. He was loathe to give up but nothing was working. Every plan he had formulated so far had fallen apart under closer examination and no amount of reading and research was inspirational.

In fact, it was having the opposite effect at the moment.

Rung sighed. There was a time when he would have thrown himself whole-heartedly into any of these treatment options, disregarding his own reservations and pressing on with stubborn faith. That time was millenia in the past but sometimes he missed his old spirit. It had won him accolades and success once. Once; before others began to build upon his work and find the cracks in his foundations. Before he had famously lost a public debate.

He was still too aware of that embarrassment, he thought sometimes, in sharply self-critical moments. His peers seemed to take criticism in stride; they could defend against it with logic or humour, adapt to it, find the worth in it and take something constructive away from it. They became friends and allies with their critics. Rung could too, eventually. It took longer. And while he picked himself up and integrated new information into his theories, his peers advanced and explored and surpassed him.

Rung took off his lenses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He had been young then, and perhaps a little arrogant. His ideas were new, considered revolutionary for a time, and he was proud of that. Then his research had been examined and re-examined, deconstructed and debated. His ideas became popularized, milled into litanies by the media until his words became part of the vernacular. Rung had been proud of that too. For a time, his work was well-known.

But that was the past; Rung was immeasureably wiser now, both to his own ego, and to the fickle attention of academia and popular media. No one who did work in an advancing field of study could gaurantee that their theories would stand, unchallenged, for ever. In matters of the mind, this was especially true. Rung had learned that too.

Still, he had moments like this one, where he doubted himself and his choices.

Perhaps he was too critical of himself. He had become methodical and careful. He considered every patient, every problem, from many angles. It did not serve him well in academia, where his peers published case studies on a regular basis, revising their ideas in follow-up papers. But it served here, didn't it? On the _Lost Light_ , amid a crew of diverse and struggling individuals, his patience and care was valued.

Rung didn't have competition in his field aboard the _Lost Light_. He had critics, but they were crew-mates who understood only the rudimentary, popular notions of psychotherapy. And he felt some hint of guilt at that, too. It was easy to be good at his job when there was no one to compare with him. It did not feel like success.

Rung replaced his lenses and looked down at the data pad before him. One more. He'd read the abstract and if it didn't seem applicable, then he would put it aside and go get supper.

There was the sound of foot-steps in the hallway and Rung glanced up. He had purposefully chosen the location of his office for greater privacy, both for his clients' benefit and his own. Foot traffic was rare.

But his office was along one of the routes to the shooting range and sometimes Rung would encounter Brainstorm or Whirl or Perceptor in the hallway. Today, Rung caught a flash of Whirl's pale armour as he passed the office and briefly wondered what the bot was doing heading for the firing range so late in the shift.

He returned his attention to the data pad. One more.

There was a scuff outside and then-

“What're you still doing here, doc?” Whirl was leaning back to peer around the doorframe.

“Just finishing up,” Rung replied. Whirl back-tracked and stood on the threshold.

“Well, you're gonna be S.O.L for dinner. Swerve just broke something in the mess; it won't be fixed up til tomorrow, says our glorious leader. Rations or nothing.”

Rung pressed his mouth into a firm line, trying not to let the news irritate him. He had field rations in his quarters, of course, but-

“Aw, don't look like that. Here,” said Whirl, tramping into the room. He had a long-barreled gun slung over one shoulder and a package in his other hand. “We can share,” he said and hopped up to sit on Rung's desk.

“Whirl-”

“You eat practically nothing anyway,” he continued and unfolded the package. Clearly, he'd been planning to eat at the firing range because there was a neatly wrapped double-ration of flavoured energon in the package. Rung blinked. “Whattayou get, like a quarter ration?”

“Yes,” said Rung, still computing the situation.

“So go on. You're hungry, aren't you?” Whirl pushed a section of the gelled energon towards him. Rung picked it up. Whirl shifted, crossing his legs, and picked up another section. Rung watched him unwrap it for several seconds before he remembered he was holding a piece himself.

Whirl turned to look out the window. Rung expected him to make a comment or observation, but he seemed satisfied eating in silence for the time being. Rung took a bite. It was just generic processed energon with nutritional additives and artificial flavouring but Rung was ravenous. He gave a little sigh.

As he ate, Rung found himself returning to rationality. His methods might be slow but they were thorough; his practice held a monopoly, but it was an absolute neccessity aboard the _Lost Light._ Rung felt he was in a better frame of mind now to go back and re-evaluate the evidence in his case file, but he had also been working for almost twelve hours straight. He would do his patients a greater service working with a clear head tomorrow.

Whirl finished his section and glanced down to acquire another. He was still quiet, still looking out the window, and Rung took a moment to analyze his body posture: slouching, legs crossed, elbows on his knees, stabilizers splayed, antenna held at a low angle. He was perplexed for a few moments because he so rarely saw Whirl content. But this was contentment. Whirl was at ease.

“You got anything to drink?” The antenna perked forward. “You always have snacks in here.”

That was true; offering food to his patients was an attempt to make them comfortable. Whirl, he suddenly realized, had never taken him up on the offer.

“I do,” said Rung and leaned over to open a drawer. “Nothing exciting.” He let Whirl choose from the energy drinks and fortified mixes, and took something for himself. And still, the helicopter just nibbled his food and kept quiet.

Rung finished his ration and leaned back in his chair, regarding the warrior perched on his desk. Whirl looked back, silent.

“Thank you,” Rung said. “I didn't really fancy eating field rations for supper.”

Whirl grunted. “Nobody does.” He set to unwrapping another section and Rung watched as he carefully divided it into morsels.

“So, what _are_ you doing in here so late?” Whirl inquired, flicking his gaze to Rung's pile of data pads.

“Working,” said Rung. He stacked the data pads and carefully aligned them between his hands. “Research and contemplation.”

Whirl ate slowly; not, Rung realized, by desire, but by design. His nutritional intake was too small for gluttony. “Huh. Don't you have shifts like the rest of us?”

“Yes, I do. During those hours, I'm available to the crew.”

“You're doing this stuff on your personal time? Why?”

“Because it interests me,” said Rung. He glanced down at the top data pad. “I want to read about what my peers are learning. I want to discover new techniques that I might be able to apply in my practice.”

Whirl fiddled with the last section of energon, still wrapped. “You actually _like_ doing this?”

“Yes,” Rung said, startled.

“Huh.” Whirl didn't elaborate. Rung swallowed his questions. The helicopter unwrapped his final ration and ate, occasionally glancing at Rung's data pads. “You ever write anything about me?” He gestured, then began to lick his claws clean. “You take all those notes.”

“No, I haven't.” Rung paused. “You are a current patient and I don't think that merely changing your name in a case study would de-identify you in a satisfactory manner. I would need your explicit consent to write about you.”

Whirl reached across and nabbed an energon stick from Rung's stash. He twirled the candy between his claws for a moment. “You want my permission?”

“I would rather work with you than write about you,” said Rung.

Whirl poked the energon stick into his intake. “I thought publishing stuff was important.”

Rung looked down at the stack of data pads. “Patients are important. Individual lives are important. More important than publishing for the sake of publishing. If you did consent to being involved in a written case study, I would do it because I thought it could be of value to others in my field who were helping patients with similar issues.”

Whirl sucked on the candy, watching him. “You ever get stuck and read their stuff?”

“That's exactly what I was doing,” said Rung.

“Oh,” said Whirl. He gulped down the candy and reached over for another. Rung pushed the package closer to him. “You looked sad,” he said.

“I was concen-” Rung stopped himself. “I'm sorry. You're right. I was upset.”

“Why? I thought you liked this.” Whirl seemed genuinely confused.

“Because publishing _is_ important and I _don't_ do it enough,” he sighed. “And I don't do it because I'm not confident.”

Whirl stopped nibbling on the energon stick. “You could get an editor.”

“What?”

“If you don't think your writing is good enough or whatever. Get an editor. Brainstorm's got one.” Whirl stretched. “He swore me to secrecy but he's behind on his hush money, so it's cool if I tell you.”

Rung felt the flicker of a smile. “It's not that,” he said. “I'm not confident that the work I do has relevance beyond this office. With you- with any of my patients- there is constant feedback, constant fine-tuning and adjustment, but a paper is static. It does no direct work.”

Whirl made a derisive noise. "You're afraid to screw up and say something dumb that'll be permanently, publicly remembered? Is that it?”

Rung frowned. “Yes.”

“Story of my life, doc.” Whirl leaned back on his elbows, using his tongue to play with the energon stick. “You will find no sympathy here. Just suck it up and do it.”

Rung said nothing for a moment, stung. Of course he would find no sympathy with Whirl. The helicopter didn't understand the academic world, had never navigated it's fickle, labyrinthine avenues, wouldn't comprehend the first thing about-

-except Whirl had lived under public scrutiny for decades with the Wreckers. Rung pressed a hand over his mouth. Whirl's words were empty; if he had no sympathy to offer, he wouldn't have doubled back because he thought Rung looked _sad_. He wouldn't have offered to share his meal. He wouldn't be doling out blunt, unsophisticated advice that Rung _needed to hear_.

“You're right,” said Rung, more brightly than he intended. “You're right. I should do it.”

Whirl dropped the energon stick and leaned over to pick it up off the floor. “Ew,” he muttered and ate it anyway. “So, are you gonna write about me?”

“I don't know,” said Rung. “I have several topics I would like to properly compose. How would you feel if I did want to write about you?”

Whirl shrugged. “It'd be the first time anybody asked if I wanted to get written about. It'd be okay, I guess. Depending on what you wrote. And who you interviewed and stuff.” He slid off Rung's desk and stood up. “Obviously, don't ask Cyclonus.”

Rung shook his head. “It wouldn't- it wouldn't be like that. Would you like to read some of my older papers to get an idea...?”

“It sounds like you're giving me homework,” said Whirl, wary.

“No, no. Strictly voluntary.”

“No thanks.” He re-shouldered the long gun. “Don't stay up all night. It's bad for you or something.”

 


End file.
